Saturday morning. I still have all of my packing to do, but the groceries are in the house, the laundry is done, the editing project is shipped, and Little Chuck is at the cat motel. I think we're going to try to time our arrival so we can take part in the No Kings rally in Southwest Harbor, if I can get myself pulled together.

We'll be traveling heavy, with a chainsaw and its accessories and possibly our bikes, as well as the usual coolers and baskets and boots and books and games and water supply. I've decided to bring along The Waves and Trollope's Barchester Towers, plus Anne Carson's Sappho translations and the ms of Baron's new collection.

I wonder what I'll actually find myself reading.

I am feeling lighter, with the big editing project temporarily off my shoulders. I'll have a couple of smaller projects waiting for me when I get home, but this breathing space is a boon. I might actually spend the weekend not thinking about either teaching or editing . . . though the essay still looms large.

We love the cottage for many reasons--the sea outside the window, the cozy sweet shabbiness, our old friend across the yard. It does not belong to us, but also it does. I'll dig in the garden. T will cut up tree limbs. A lobster boat will idle in the cove. Bluejays will quarrel in the spruce trees. Chimney smoke will tremble in a cloud of drizzle.